A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [146]
Thornton Tomtree felt blood circulating through his body again.
“And, sir, a little cream on the pudding. The Iowa Republican caucus wants you to run for reelection by over seventy-three percent.”
“Who took the Democratic caucus?” the President asked.
“That yahoo, the Colorado Kid…”
“Quinn Patrick O’Connell?”
“Yes, sir.”
Would/could the American people ever trust another politician, even if they knew of his warts in advance? They gathered about Thornton Tomtree. At that moment T3 was all that was left. He was super calm, and much in control.
And along came Quinn.
“Savior” was too strong a word, but a nation desperate to get off its knees had moved him onto center stage. An enormous media focus on New Hampshire bespoke the arrival of a new force.
In Denver, down by the railroad tracks, a big old warehouse was donated for use by the O’Connell for President committee. It had long been derelict as a warehouse and later went belly-up as a disco. Greer corralled an overabundance of volunteers and opened a bank account.
Contributions of office furniture and computers arrived from Chicago to Salt Lake City.
Quinn’s midnight arguments with Maldonado, Greer, and Rita, his most inner circle, took on a legend of their own. The three of them came to realize that with Quinn, it was “the campaign will be my way or the highway.”
Half a candidate’s time was consumed with fund-raising among the high and the mighty. No serious candidacy could go far without the major contributors…who found unlimited, ingenious ways to bypass the legal donation limits. Quinn made a daring decision on the night he left for New Hampshire.
“I will not take contributions from PACs. I will not accept soft money. Soft money is slimy and difficult to catch, but you know what soft money is and I know what soft money is. I want my candidacy to be supported mainly by contributions from ordinary people. I’m being asked to do a difficult job, and if you think I’m the man, then let me hear from you.”
For the first of many times, one was certain that O’Connell had shot himself in the foot.
However, by the time he hit New Hampshire, a deluge of pledges came in to Quinn, conveniently charged on Diners Club, MasterCard, VISA, Discover, and American Express cards.
BROTHER, CAN YOU SPARE A DIME read the headline. I AM THE PEOPLE’S CANDIDATE.
Quinn held up his daily press bulletin. On the top were several boxes giving donations of the past twenty-four hours, expenditures, and total in the bank. This degree of openness chilled the American house politic down to the marrow.
At Manchester there was a sudden and urgent feeling of in-gathering of people from Maine and Vermont. They just had to see this fellow. Please, God, make him real. In the winter drearies, the streets were thickly lined, and an unlikely scene unfolded of New Englanders showing public passion.
The pundits dug deeply into the history of the American presidency to find more of a “down-home” candidate: witty, environmentally brilliant, sound on his issues, and completely modest and at ease among the people.
Quinn and Rita skied a treacherous run known as the Oh Shit Trail and ended up on their feet.
Look at that couple!
Was he too good to be true? Have we forgotten the terrible besmirchment of the president’s office in the Clinton era? Have we forgotten the pain? Can we ever trust another politician?
Surely the voters could be venting their pent-up hurt, and surely they could be gambling their own future aspirations. But don’t stop the carnival!
In his town hall meetings, Quinn often shocked with his common sense and candor. He spoke the truth, more than once, to criticize his own failings. Quinn ignited